Venice Preserv'd/Prologue

by Thomas Otway

PROLOGUE.

In these distracted times, when each man dreads
The bloudy stratagems of busie heads;
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$When we have fear'd three years we know not what,
Till Witnesses begin to die o' th' rot,
What made our Poet meddle with a Plot?
Was't that he fansy'd, for the very sake
And name of Plot, his trifling Play might take?
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$For there's not in't one Inch-board Evidence,
But 'tis, he says, to reason plain and sense,
And that he thinks a plausible defence.
Were Truth by Sense and Reason to be tri'd,
Sure all our Swearers might be laid aside:
No, of such Tools our Author has no need,
To make his Plot, or may his Play succeed;
He, of black Bills, has no prodigious Tales,
Or Spanish Pilgrims cast a-shore in Wales;
Here's not one murther'd Magistrate at least,
Kept rank like Ven'son for a City feast,
Grown four days stiff, the better to prepare
And fit his plyant limbs to ride in Chair:
Yet here's an Army rais'd, though under ground,
But no man seen, nor one Commission found;
Here is a Traitour too, that's very old,
Turbulent, subtle, mischievous and bold,
Bloudy, revengefull, and to crown his part,
Loves fumbling with a Wench, with all his heart;
Till after having many changes pass'd,
In spight of Age (thanks Heaven) is hang'd at last:
Next is a Senatour that keeps a Whore,
In Venice none a higher office bore;
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$To lewdness every night the Letcher ran,
Shew me, all London, such another man,
Match him at Mother Creswolds if you can.
Oh Poland, Poland! had it been thy lot,
T'have heard in time of this Venetian Plot,
Thou surely chosen hadst one King from thence,
And honour'd them as thou hast England since.